


Maybe it Will All Come Back to Me

by ItsADrizzit



Series: Deleted Scenes [4]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Flashbacks, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Stand Alone, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 08:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit
Summary: Chris always means to say a lot of things. He rarely manages to say any of them.A fic about winter, and retrospection, and regret and making space to organise the one thing in your life that’s always been a bit of a mess.“What were the words I meant to say before you left?”This work is part of a series of related works, but each can be read as a stand-alone story.





	Maybe it Will All Come Back to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Decemberists "January Hymn", which is the song that inspired this fic.
> 
> Thanks to [eafay70](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/eafay70) for beta and making sure all these weird jumps in time made sense.

Chris blew out a slow breath and slid backwards across the polished wood floor until his back hit the wall. He sat cross-legged in his spare room surrounded by the remnants of his past life; everything arranged according to general category.

To the side, a bin bag was filled close to bursting: a stack of bank statements and other tax documents he didn’t need anymore, a years old cell phone he hadn’t traded in, admission tickets and other odds and ends from charity events or theatre showings or films he’d attended, and an absurd number of user manuals and protection plan cards for electronic devices he hadn’t owned for at least a few years now. How he still had all these things stashed away in boxes he had no idea. Most of it predated his move to this house three years ago and some of it had even made the move to London with him five years ago now.

On his other side sat a cardboard mailing box stuffed three-quarters full of the storied history of his football career. He’d hung on to these things for a while, unsure of what to do with them but knowing he needed to keep them: old kits and national team caps and man of the match or player of the week awards. He’d even thrown in a few photo albums he’d found of his time at Ajax, along with the odd newspaper clipping chronicling some feat of his career or speculating on his move to London and his potential for success with Spurs. He’d send it on to his parents back in Denmark and let them sort it all out—mix it in with the rest of the mementos of his childhood. It certainly wasn’t doing anyone any good here shoved away forgotten in a bin in the back of a room no one ever used.

From a short distance away, the sounds of the BT sport announcers spilled out of his laptop speakers. Chris was only half paying attention to the FA Cup match he had on in the background, but the soothing sounds of a football match in full sway were worlds better than sorting through the detritus of his past in complete silence.

Spurs themselves had a match away in south Wales later that evening, but Chris had been left back in London with strict instructions to get some rest and continue his recovery from illness.

Two weeks ago, the team had headed out to what was supposed to be a pleasant, warm weather break from the dregs of English winter and the heavy moods that came along with the Premier League’s festive fixtures. Their now customary winter training camp in Barcelona gave everyone a much needed opportunity to relax under the sunshine, regroup, and come back fresh for the second half of the season. This year, however, they’d all managed to pass around some sort of flu, complete with the requisite fever and aching joints, and Chris wasn’t sure any of them had enjoyed the trip.

The illness had hit Chris in full force as they boarded their flight home and he’d spent the entire miserable trip huddled beneath a blanket; alternating between fever and chills, his head pounding and coughing fits racking his entire body every few minutes. As soon as they’d landed, he’d been ordered home to rest and instructed not to show up to training unless he felt fully up to it.

He’d spent the better part of the past week tucked up in bed, too worn out to get up for more than a few moments. His teammates had taken turns stopping by with soup and various terrible tasting drinks they swore up and down would cure him in no time. They hadn’t, of course, although he had complete confidence he’d be back to full training after the weekend. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take advantage of a rare weekend off.

By cleaning his spare room, apparently. _Right, Chris. Keep on living the glamorous and exciting life of a professional footballer at the peak of your career_

Weak light filtered in the windows from outside—the depths of English winter, sky the colour of slate and spitting with cold rain. Relentless grey fog and dampness with no end in sight. In truth, a perfect day for huddling inside with a hot drink and mundane household tasks he’d pushed to the side for too long now.

Chris’s cleaning fit had been spurred on by his phone call with Vincent the night before. The two had fallen into an easy rhythm since Vincent had returned to Istanbul earlier that month from his brief Christmas holidays, each of them making more of an effort to carve out a time and space to connect via Skype, if only for a few minutes each week. Beyond that, they kept each other updated on the day-to-day via WhatsApp and their private Snapchat and Instagram accounts and had a standing coffee-and-FaceTime date on Tuesday and Thursday mornings unless one of them had a mid-week match to prepare for.

Last night, though, Vincent had called him out of the blue with a “sorry to interrupt, I know it’s Friday night, but…” that had Chris banging out a message to Toby asking to push back their dinner plans. He had no idea what was going on, but from the tone in Vincent’s voice Chris knew he needed to give whatever this was his full intention. Toby would understand—or he wouldn’t, but after their near confrontation over Chris and Vincent’s relationship on Christmas Day, he would at least leave things to eyerolls and disapproving looks. Probably.

“Vincent,” Chris had asked, turning his phone off and dropping it to the end table beside his sofa before turning his full attention to Vincent.

He angled his laptop screen so he could see Vincent a bit better and leaned back into the cool faux-leather of his sofa.

“They have no idea what’s wrong with me, Chris,” Vincent said, his eyes wide and even darker than usual in the dim lighting of his tiny Istanbul flat.

Chris blinked down at him, his brain trying to parse together Vincent’s statement without any context.

His confusion must have been evident on his face because Vincent followed his statement up with, “The trainers. I went in for an MRI today. The swelling is finally down, but they said things were still ‘inconclusive’. Whatever that means.”

Right. Vincent’s toe had started hurting out of nowhere in the middle of a match a few days before the Christmas break and by the time the pain had gotten too unbearable for him to run it had swelled up to nearly twice it’s regular size.

Vincent had done a more than admirable job of pretending he could walk without difficulty for the duration of his stay in London over the Christmas holidays, but Chris knew him well enough to pick up on the way his breath hitched and his body stiffened each time he put his full weight on his foot. Chris had taken every opportunity to press him into a chair to wait while Chris made them coffee or food or cleaned up from meals, waving off any offers of help with the excuse that “you’re my guest”. Thankfully, Vincent hadn’t protested much, even flashing Chris a few grateful smiles whenever Chris offered to drive somewhere so Vincent wouldn’t have to work the pedals.

“That’s not new though, is it?” Chris asked. “I know they weren’t sure because they were waiting for better images, but…”

“I can’t feel the tip of my toe, Chris.” The words cascaded out of Vincent in a rush. Even through the small computer speaker Chris heard the strain in his voice, tight and choked, the pitch a bit higher than normal. “It’s just…pins and needles every time I take a step.”

“Oh, Vincent, I—” Chris started, but Vincent cut him off.

“I thought I had a real chance at a good move this summer, which…who knows anything about anything as far as transfers go, I know. But if I don’t play for the rest of the season…”

Vincent dropped his forehead to his hands, his already tinny voice now coming out muffled as he spoke into his sleeves. “It’s bad enough that I’m stuck over here in a league no one pays any attention to anyway, but now I’m not even training. Any thoughts of a January return is gone now. Not that it was ever a real option in the first place. “

“Vincent.” Chris stared up at the ceiling, squinting against the harsh overhead lights as he racked his brain for some words of encouragement.

_What does someone say in this situation_? _What_ is _there to say_?

For one thing, Vincent wasn’t wrong. If his injury persisted—or got worse, as it sounded like it was doing—he couldn’t train. If he couldn’t train, he couldn’t play. If he couldn’t play he’d drop off the radar of most clubs who might have expressed interested in picking up his contract—including Spurs.

While Chris had been lucky thus far in his career to avoid serious injury and long spells on the bench, he’d seen his teammates and friends go through it often enough to know how draining it could be. Vincent was generally positive and optimistic about life and had a way of ducking his head against the storm and making the best of whatever situation was tossed his way, but everyone had their breaking point.

Chris tugged at the front of his hair as though if he yanked hard enough he could pull the right thoughts to the surface. His head spun, filled to bursting with words he’d wanted to say to Vincent so many times in the months since he’d left.

_Come home to me, Vincent. Don’t leave me, Vincent. As it turns out I’m pretty shit at living without you, and I’d rather not do it anymore, thank you very much._

When he opened his mouth to speak, however, all he heard from his lips were the same words he always turned to when he had nothing else to say.

“Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”

He’d spoken that sentence so many times over the past half a year—through Vincent’s struggles in the first team, his impending transfers away from London, his struggles with _Oranje_ , everything. Vincent had leaned on him and Chris had gladly taken the full brunt of his weight whenever he needed to, even to the detriment of his own well-being at times.

Chris meant the words with all his heart every time he spoke them, but somehow, they seemed to mean a little less with each utterance—never enough and nowhere near what Vincent deserved.

“Who knows,” Chris said. “Maybe the injury will get better as suddenly as it began. Or…maybe things will turn out in your favour and the club won’t be able to work out a deal this summer so you can stay.”

This was a dangerous line of thinking, Chris knew. It hovered all too close to the words he never let himself say. But maybe they both needed a glimmer of hope right now that things might somehow work out for them, in the end.

But instead of optimistic cheer and a flash of Vincent’s infectious smile, Chris’s words were met with a sarcastic laugh and a biting tone. “That’s my _Christiaan._  Always practical. Don’t worry, Vincent, maybe you’re so worthless the club will be stuck with you. Hardly the career move I’m looking for, but thank you, as usual, for the vote of confidence. ”

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know you didn’t. Sorry. I just…” Vincent sucked in a deep breath.

“Honestly Chris…I’m worried. The doctors never say it in so many words, but I can tell they’re concerned. I see the way they whisper to one another in Turkish and shake their heads in confusion before turning around and telling me I’ll be fine. I’m trying not to think of the worst, but…what if this is it, Chris? What if some stupid, mystery toe injury that no one can figure out is the end of my career?”

The thought hung suspended in the air between them while Chris once again struggled to find the right thing to say. What was there?

_The same thing as always, Chris. That everything would be better if he was here._

The same words Chris had wanted to say weeks ago as he and Vincent held one another close, pressed up against the front door before they each went their separate ways once more—Chris off to an away match at Swansea and Vincent to see his parents in the Netherlands before heading back to Istanbul. The two had lingered around the house as long as possible, neither ready to face the end of their too brief reunion.

_Do you really have to go? Can’t you stay a bit longer? Be here when I get back so I have something I can look forward to returning to_? Chris had wanted to ask, although he knew that wasn’t fair. Vincent had given up a holiday in Spain with his family to be here in cold, rainy London, and Chris had no right to ask for any more of his time, especially when the team would be away to Wales for two days and busy with double trainings and three matches over the next week. Chris would hardly have a second to find his feet, let alone give Vincent the time he deserved.

He’d dragged himself from Vincent’s warm embrace, mumbled some kind of generic “be well, call me later” and let Vincent step out the front door into the January chill, white puffs of breath surrounding him in a cloud as he gave Chris a wave and one of his infectious smiles before disappearing into the waiting taxi.

Chris had stepped back into his house—suddenly too empty and too cold and too big—and it had taken every ounce of willpower in him not to do something ridiculous like run out his front door after the taxi, arms flailing over his head, until it ground to a stop and he could yank the door open and beg Vincent not to go, not to leave him, not again.

Instead, he’d shut the door, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. Then he washed up the last of the dishes from their shared breakfast, gathered up his suitcase and his carry-on, climbed into his car, and drove away in the opposite direction of Vincent.

Now, those same words hung heavy on the tip of his tongue. _Come back, Vincent. Call your agent and have him demand the team bring you back to London for your recovery. It’s not unheard of for loan players to rehab with their parent club. You’re still a Spurs player. It’s in their best interest to oversee the process and make sure you’re getting the best medical care you can, not some sub-par doctor in Turkey who has no reason to care whether you recover or not._

And, okay, that was unfair. The doctors in Istanbul and the trainers at Fenerbaçe were doing all they could. Besides, even if Vincent did come back to London there was no guarantee things would go any differently. This might be one of those rare, inexplicable injuries that needed time and rest and would resolve on its own.

Still, if Vincent was stuck waiting it out anyway, wouldn’t it be better for both of them if he could at least be back in London surrounded by his friends instead of half a world away trying to face it all on his own?

“Vincent,” Chris started, his heart pounding in his chest and his throat dry.

Maybe it was too much to ask. With the way Vincent referred to his year away—his exile, forced move across the continent—always with a slight bitterness to his tone, it was possible Vincent didn’t want to rehab back in London. The club had made their feelings about Vincent clear and Chris wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to show up at Enfield every day. Or worse, sitting around the house waiting for Chris to come home like some kind of expectant housewife. That wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

Chris had always been one hundred percent dedicated to his career. You didn’t make it at the highest level if football wasn’t the main focus in your life. Part of the reason Chris’s scant few relationships over the years had never lasted more than a few months was that his partners had wanted more of Chris’s time and attention than he could give them. His girlfriends always begged him to spend nights out in the city with them and their friends or to take them shopping or sightseeing, but Chris had declined in favour of nights in and extra training sessions. If he had to decide between his career and a relationship, football would always come first.

Vincent understood the life of a Premier League footballer. He’d accept that Chris needed to be up early for training and to stay late to run extra drills. But in this case it felt different. Vincent was struggling with his career and Chris knew it would only add to his strife if he were forced to sit on the sidelines and watch all his friends live, breathe, and sleep the game he couldn’t play.

What good would Vincent’s return do them anyway? They’d have five months together before Chris was swept away into training camp with _Landsholdet_ in preparation for the World Cup and then the transfer window would carry Vincent away from him once more—probably for good this time.

_Dragging out the inevitable_. Toby’s voice rang in Chris’s mind.

Maybe, as usual, Toby was right. Their fate was sealed, no matter how hard they tried to fight it. Wouldn’t it be better if they got used to living thousands of kilometres apart now instead of making it more and more painful as they grew closer in one another’s company?

_Fenerbaçe is a good club. A good option. A place for Vincent to find his feet and work his way back and learn to shine. A chance to play football in Europe, to compete for league titles, to win trophies_.

If Vincent begged to return to London now—shunning the club he’d once said had saved him—would they still look on him so favourably once his injury passed.

And so, once again, instead of saying the words resting so near the tip of his tongue, Chris fixed his face in his best playful grin and deflected his feelings with a joke.

“Well…if your career is over anyway you could always move back to London and join the WAGs. Although I think you’ll need to learn to cook more, and you’ll almost certainly need to develop an improved fashion sense.”

“Ha. So funny, Christian. Truly. I can hardly contain my laughter.”

“I’m just making sure you know what all your options are.”

“Yes well. Be careful what you wish for. With the way things are going I think you _had_ better start getting my room ready.”

“I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.”

Chris took in the barely disguised anguish on Vincent’s face and shifted his tone a bit. Vincent needed him to show support, not laugh this all off as nothing.

“Hang in there, yeah? Trust the trainers and do whatever they tell you and try not to worry too much. Injuries are the worst, I know, but you’re young, Vincent. It will work out. These things do.”

Vincent let out a snort of a laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one limping about on the sidelines while three strikers prove they’re better at their position than you.”

“Hey now. None of that. You’ll make a quick recovery and find your form and you’ll be unstoppable in no time. _Komt goed_ , right?”

This time, Vincent rewarded Chris with a reluctant smile. “Right. _Komt goed_. I know. Patience and hardwork and all that.”

“Exactly. So…listen, I hate to go, and I won’t if you need me, but I’ve already put Toby off for too long and if I don’t ring him back he’s liable to show up here and drag me off to dinner by the ear. You know how things are.”

“Of course. Off to bed for me soon anyway.”

“Keep your head up. You can do this, Vincent. I’m here if you need me.”

“Right. I’ll do my best. Have a good night, Chris.”

“Mmmm. _Slap lekker, liefje. Ik hou van je_.”

“I love you too, _Lieveke_.”

Chris pressed a kiss to his index and middle fingers and pressed them to the screen and Vincent completed the same motion on his end. The two held the pose, silence hanging in the air, until Vincent clicked the window closed and the screen went dark.

 

***

 

Still leaning against the wall, cold starting to creep into his back through the fabric of his hoodie, Chris slowly unbent his knees. He moved carefully, extending first one leg and then the other out in front of him and wincing at the ache in his joints and the jolts of pain shooting up his shins.

Judging from the way the sun was hanging low in the sky, it was later in the day than he’d thought. Toby would be showing up soon to eat dinner and watch the match, so Chris would have to continue his clear out tomorrow. He’d been working all day and although he knew he’d made decent progress, right now he mostly had an enormous mess on his hands.

Not that he was in a hurry to finish the job or anything. He wasn’t even sure why he was doing it other than out of some weird sense of obligation after his flippant mention of it to Vincent the previous evening. He hadn’t been serious when he spoke the words, but after the third time he’d woken up in the middle of the night and been unable to fall back to sleep, he’d decided to stay up and start digging through the boxes. He’d already been in the room anyway, having dragged himself down the hallway from his bedroom and collapsed onto Vincent’s sofa in the hopes he might find sleep there, wrapped up in the familiar textures and soothing scent of Vincent’s cologne.

The smell had faded away quickly without Vincent’s daily presence. Chris would never admit it, not even under threat of death, but he’d taken to refreshing the scent once a week with the bottle he kept hidden in the back of his bathroom cupboards. Toby had never found it, thankfully, although Chris would have been able to explain it away as something Vincent had left behind. In truth, after the first night Chris had shoved his face into the cushions so hard while trying to find some lingering hint of Vincent’s scent there that he thought he might smother himself, he’d rushed to the store to buy a bottle of it for himself. That evening, he’d doused the entire sofa in a fine mist of it until the fabric was damp to the touch and the fragrance permeated the entire upper floor of his house for hours.

Chris worked his legs back and forth, letting his ankles flop side to side in an attempt to work out some of the cramp. He tipped his head to one side, then another, wincing at the shooting pain through his shoulders and neck. He probably should have set up some sort of timer on his phone to remind him to stand and take a break once an hour.

His feet had stopped tingling, at least, but his knee joints the muscles in his shins still screamed at him, so he  took the time to lean against the wall and stretch a bit. Better safe than turning up for practice on Monday and having to explain his stiff back and aching knees with a “Sorry, Gaffer, I was cleaning out my storage room and couldn’t be arsed to stand up for an entire day.” He’d never live that down.

Satisfied that he’d worked out all the kinks and could make it down the stairs without his legs giving out on him, Chris sidestepped the boxes and papers littering his floor and scooped up a stack of photographs from where he’d set them on the sofa a few hours earlier. Some of them were tucked into small frames, others floated loose. He’d been looking for these for a while now and had been surprised to find them shoved into a cardboard box full of old legal documents he never needed to look at, although the moment he found them he’d known exactly how they ended up there.

Photographs tucked under his arm, he let one hand trail across the plush upholstery of the sofa and made his way downstairs.

 

***

 

Chris turned into his living room, hitting the light switch on his way past to activate the LED track lighting that ran the perimeter of the room. Light flooded into the space around him, casting everything in a blue-white glow that brightened the white walls and pale wood floorboards even further and glared off the glass of the framed photographs lining the shelves—friends and family and happy days spent in sunshine and joy.

_And now these_. Chris extracted the stack of frames from under his arm and set them on a side table. The pictures—all photos of he and Vincent or of Vincent on his own, smiling and laughing and happy—had once been scattered throughout the house, intermingled with snapshots of the rest of Chris’s life, until Toby had swept them all up and hidden them away in an attempt to help Chris “ _get past things_.” Chris had spent hours searching for them, digging through drawers and peering into cupboards and closets to no avail. He’d eventually given up and assumed Toby had taken them to his house or tossed them in the bin.

Not that it had mattered. Chris had copies of each and every one of them stored on his phone and in his cloud storage—Vincent’s smiling face at his fingertips whenever Chris needed it.

In the kitchen, lit in the same bright blue-white LED lighting that filled the rest of his ground floor, Chris filled a glass with water and leaned against his counter, staring out the window at the rapidly darkening sky outside. It was getting hard to believe that a few short weeks ago he’d stood here with Vincent beside him, their hips bumping together, his body radiating heat against Chris’s side.

That was what he’d missed the most, the warmth of another person beside him. He was getting used to it now, although he had to admit having Vincent here beside him again—handing him a mug of coffee in the morning, wrapping him in an embrace as soon as he stepped in the door from another grueling training session, waving down at him from the Wembley stands and greeting him with a grin and a hug in the car park after the match—had reminded him of how things could be. Chris had started to get back to life without Vincent, but it seemed like everything might always feel a bit odd from now on, at least until life brought them back into the same place once more.

_Right, Chris. More like_ if _life ever brings us back to the same place again._

Until then, Chris supposed, he would continue coming home each night to his big, empty house and wondering what one person was supposed to do with all this space. It had all seemed perfectly normal before Vincent had found his way into Chris’s life—Chris’s home, filled with cozy warmth and sunlight and memories of days spent surrounded by friends and family; somewhere to settle in a bit and invite friends over for dinner and games and television—but ever since Vincent had left, the big house Chris had once loved seemed to be missing a piece, the entire structure waiting with anticipation for its other occupant to return.

The biggest problem was that everything here was a constant reminder of Vincent—the kitchen where they’d laughed together and stolen kisses over mugs of coffee, the patio where they’d sat in whatever rays of sun London would give them and drank glasses of wine or ate dinner or talked, the sofa where they’d spent so many nights curled together beneath a blanket laughing or gasping at shows on television or Netflix. Now, Chris’s DVR backlog had piled up until it was nearly full and his Netflix queue remained untouched, saved up for some unknown time in the distant future when they could stay up all night marathoning them together.

He knew Vincent would chastise him for not getting caught up on the shows they’d been watching together before Vincent moved away, but Chris hadn’t been able to watch more than a few episodes of each. The shows weren’t the same without Vincent beside him, laughing and gasping, his every reaction playing out on his face. In truth, it seemed, Chris had enjoyed watching Vincent watch the shows as much as he’d enjoyed the shows themselves, sometimes more.

Chris yawned and shook his head a bit to clear his brain from what seemed like its now near constant fog. Although he’d spent the better part of the past week feeling miserable, at least his illness had left him so drained that he’d been able doze off without thinking about how impossibly large and cold his bed was with Vincent gone. Now that he’d recovered he was back to tossing and turning all night until he abandoned any hope of a decent night’s sleep.

Chris had always been a light sleeper and enjoyed his space, but he’d gotten used to sleeping beside Vincent, both of them pressed into the centre of Chris’s oversized mattress, their limbs tangled together, heat radiating between them, the air filled with the sound of their shared breaths. In the months following Vincent’s move to Istanbul, his room had felt too cold and the neighbourhood too silent. Chris had spent most of his nights staring up at the stark white ceiling, shining in the darkness from the dim glow of the streetlamps outside, willing his body to fall asleep so he might not be a complete mess for training the next morning.

Last night, as he’d done so many nights in the months following Vincent’s move, Chris had grabbed the spare pillow from his bed—trying not to think of it as Vincent’s pillow—and carried it down the hall to the spare room. There, he’d crumpled onto Vincent’s sofa and pressed his face into the smooth fabric in the hopes he might not feel like the empty place beside him in his bed was about to swallow him whole. Vincent’s scent had still lingered in the creases of both pillow and sofa, and Chris let himself breathe it in until he felt his body relax and he slid into sleep.

Vincent’s sofa—his most prized possession—now entrusted to Chris’s care.

The two had been seated on it the night before Vincent left, the floor around it littered with boxes and stray odds and ends—not much different than the state of Chris’s spare room now.

_Except back then we were packing things away to separate one life from another, not sorting through things long packed away and trying to make a space._

Chris had rushed over to Vincent’s apartment from the training centre the day he’d heard the news of Vincent’s transfer. He hadn’t bothered to shower or change out of his training gear, pausing just long enough to yell a brief “goodbye, I’ll see you all tomorrow” to his teammates before he was running down the corridor to the carpark and diving into his car, heedless of his friends’ confused shouts of “Christian, where are you going?” trailing down the corridor after him.

He’d burst through Vincent’s door, gasping for breath after his full sprint up three flights of stairs. Vincent had looked up at him from where he sat on the living room floor surrounded by a cyclone of his own possessions. His red-rimmed eyes had shown with a flash of hardened steel for the briefest instant before Chris crashed into him and the two of them collapsed to the floor, hands stroking against skin and tangling in hair and clothing as they lay there and held one another in silence.

Later, most of Vincent’s belongings carefully packed into boxes and meticulously labeled—despite Vincent’s protests that it didn’t matter and it wasn’t as though he owned all that much anyway—the two of them sat side-by-side on the sofa surrounded in a warm, golden glow from the lamplight, scraping the last remnants of an ordered-in dinner out of plain white dishes.

Around them, the apartment looked no different than it had the previous evening save a few bare spots on the shelves and walls where Vincent had packed away the few photographs and awards he’d bothered to hang up during his year in London. Everything else, except the sofa and Vincent’s television, had come with the fully furnished property and would remain in place, waiting for the next occupant to fill the space with the evidence of their own existence here.

Vincent had placed his empty dish on the table and turned to Chris with such a serious expression on his face that when he’d asked, “Chris, can you do me a favour?” Chris had been half afraid Vincent was going to somehow drop even worse news than “I’m moving to Istanbul for a year”.

“What am I supposed to say when you ask it like that?” Chris had said. “I guess…it depends on how strange?”

“It’s…about my sofa.”

Chris didn’t bother trying to suppress his groan. Vincent’s relationship with the sofa was bordering on unhealthy. “I should have known. If it’s about getting it shipped to you, the club can make all the arrangements.”

“No. I don’t know where I’ll be staying when I arrive. They will probably have me in a hotel until I can choose an apartment and then, well, I do hope to come back after my loan. So…”

He flicked his gaze downward, and Chris reached out to stroke the scruff along the sharp edge of his jaw.

“I was wondering…if you might take it. I know you already have all your furnishings in place and it doesn’t really fit with the rest of your things, but I just thought…Nevermind. It’s too much to ask. I’ll have it sent back home to my mother. She can keep it or sell it or…something.”

Chris pressed two fingers to Vincent’s chin, pressing upward to get Vincent to raise his gaze to meet his own.

“You can’t sell your sofa. It’s your most precious possession.”

Vincent tried and failed to fix his face into an expression of casual apathy. “Shipping it doesn’t make sense. Besides, it’s old. I can get a better one wherever I end up next.”

Chris leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Vincent’s mouth. That had been the first time he’d had to bite back the words threatening to spill from his lips. _When you come back, Vincent, if you need somewhere to stay…_ Or perhaps _I know you have to leave, Vincent, but I hope someday I can be the place you’ll return to_.

But he’d stopped himself, Toby’s warnings echoing through his head. _You know there are no guarantees in football, Chris. You knew this was coming. Vincent isn’t a bad player, but sometimes things don’t work out. You can’t dwell on what wasn’t meant to be._

“Have the movers bring it by.”

A grateful smile flashed across Vincent’s face. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Chris resisted the urge to squirm and look away, willing himself to hold it together, uncertain that the moment he opened his mouth he wouldn’t break down and pull Vincent to his chest and scream “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go” until they both collapsed into the cushions sobbing. Neither of them needed that, now or ever.

Football was football and it could be cruel on the best of days. Vincent would be leaving, whether Chris wanted him to or not. In a few short hours Chris would return home from training to an empty house and an empty bed and he and Vincent may never be in the same place again. He knew the realities of the situation.

When the movers had dropped the sofa off at Chris’s house the following evening it had been like rubbing citrus and salt straight on a fresh wound. Chris had thrown his body and mind into training, all his focus on the ball at his feet and the grass beneath his boots so he didn’t have to think about Vincent alone on an airplane flying three thousand kilometres into the unknown while Chris stayed here in London training with his teammates as though nothing had changed. All day, he’d still half expected to hear Vincent’s laugh ringing across the pitch or to catch Vincent’s eye and watch his face flash into a dazzling smile, dimples creasing his cheeks as he grinned over at Chris.

Everything had moved too quickly around him, Chris always a step too slow. Despite his attempts to clear his mind and focus on his training, his thoughts kept drifting back to the night before—Vincent’s hands all over him, his own hands sliding along every curve of Vincent’s body, both of them once again trying to memorise every taste and texture and smell.

He’d trudged home after training feeling drained and ill and empty inside, wanting nothing more than to collapse into his bed and not leave it for the next week. Instead, he’d just about managed to change out of the jeans and t-shirt he’d worn home from training when his doorbell chimed.

Chris directed the movers up the stairs and into his spare room, stopping to shove aside some of the boxes and plastic bins in the corner to make room for the sofa, now wrapped in a heavy black dust cover. They’d had to leave it at an odd angle, one corner wedged against the far wall, the other protruding out into the centre of the room, but Chris hadn’t cared. He didn’t plan on looking at it any time soon anyway. He’d slammed the door on the whole mess, shown the movers out, then dragged himself back upstairs and crashed into his bed, purposefully not looking at the now closed door on his way past. He didn’t need anything in that room for the next year or so anyway.

He’d lasted a week before his resolve had crumbled.

The morning after Vincent left, Chris had dragged himself to training, his eyelids leaden and his mind in a fog. He’d headed to bed, utterly exhausted, just after sunset, but he’d been unable to find sleep and had lain awake most of the night staring at the clock and counting down the hours until morning. Every motion he’d made during training the next day had felt like trying to swim through jelly. His steps heavy and laboured as though his legs had been shoved into buckets of concrete.

The day after that was the same. And the one after that. And the one after that.

After a week, Pochettino had pulled him aside and asked if he was feeling alright. Chris thought about telling him the truth, but there was no good way to explain the situation, so he’d said, “Yes, sorry. Just a bit off my game, I suppose. I’ll work through it.”

That night, however, was more of the same. Chris fell into bed drained and exhausted and barely able to push himself to make the trek up the stairs to his bedroom. Yet once he lay down…nothing. Eventually he’d dozed off, but after the third time he’d jolted awake—his subconscious waiting to hit Vincent’s solid warmth on the far side of the bed and throwing itself into panic mode as Chris shifted into nothing but empty space—Chris had been ready to give up.

He couldn’t keep going on like this. His entire career rested on his ability to control his body, his mental sharpness. He’d never make it even half-way through the grind of the Premier League season if he couldn’t even manage to get some sleep. Something had to give.

Chris had crawled from the bed and crept down the hallway towards his spare bedroom. He’d thought perhaps a change of venue might help. He’d been sleeping well on the road, tucked up into hotel beds that felt so foreign beneath him that the lack of warmth beside him was just one of many oddities and he’d been able to put it out of his mind.

On his way down the corridor, Chris had paused in front of the still closed door to his spare room for a few moments before pressing his hand to the latch and stepping inside.

He had no idea how long he’d stood there in silence, face-to-face with this solid, concrete reminder of Vincent’s absence. The grey cushions, now wrapped in protective black fabric, loomed in the darkness like a shadow, and Chris dove in. Before he knew what he was doing he’d stripped the cover off, tossed it to the floor, and was halfway back to his room to retrieve the pillow and duvet from his own bed.

How many times had he chastised Vincent for doing this exact same thing? ‘ _Vincent, you have a perfectly lovely bed to sleep in._ ’ or ‘ _You know sleeping there isn’t going to do your joints any favours, right_?’ Yet Chris had tucked himself up on the sofa, letting out a small moan of pleasure as he caught a whiff of Vincent’s cologne deep in the cushions, and closed his eyes tight.

In a matter of minutes, he was asleep.

From that day on, he’d all but made the sofa into his bed, much to the dismay of his friends.

Toby constantly scolded him about it, sounding more like a Dutch _opa_ than ever before as he tossed out the same words Chris had once spoken to Vincent about his practice of falling asleep on the sofa. His favourite, ‘ _What’s the point of having a custom mattress if you’re just going to sleep wherever_?’ always earned him an amused grin from Chris that seemed to infuriate him.

Once he’d learned of Chris’s sofa-sleeping habits, he’d made a point of “dropping by” at night and hanging about until Chris declared himself ready for bed. Then Toby would give a yawn and say he was knackered and did Chris mind if he just slept in the guest bedroom again. Chris had agreed, because he wasn’t the sort to turn out a friend when he had a spare bed, even if said friend’s own house with his own bed was a mere five minute drive away.

He’d all but taken up residence in Chris’s spare bedroom, moving in a week’s worth of clothing at a time and taking it upon himself to drive them both to and from training as though he had no house or life or relationship of his own to be getting on with. Every time Chris had crept down the hallway to his spare room, Toby had intercepted him, pressing him back towards his own bed and bringing him glasses of water as though Chris were a small child who’d woken in the night from a bad dream and needed someone nearby to comfort him.

As much as Chris hated to admit it, Toby’s interventions had actually helped. His constant presence had seemed like an annoyance at first, but having another person to talk to and share meals with again had eased Chris back into something close to normality again—whatever that meant.

Eventually, Chris’s bed hadn’t felt so strange and foreign and empty, and the only time he’d ever found himself on the sofa was the occasional lazy Sunday afternoon spent reading and dozing in the late afternoon sunlight.

Then, Vincent had turned up on his doorstep unannounced one day, a solid, warm, comforting presence surrounding Chris on all sides once more, and Chris could hardly believe he’d forgotten how life could be with Vincent at his side. Vincent had only stayed for a week, but the instant his taxi had pulled away Chris had felt his absence as keenly as if someone had banged a hole right through the centre of his house.

 

 ***

 

Chris stifled another yawn, his eyelids already heavy despite the still early hour. He’d better make some coffee if he was going to make it through his evening with Toby. He could pass his fatigue off as the lingering remnants of illness if he needed to, but he’d been well enough last night that Toby would get suspicious if Chris dozed off midway through a five-thirty pm match.

He pulled open the cupboard and reached for the bag of coffee he always stashed within easy reach, but a second, smaller bag—unassuming brown paper, unmarked and unlabeled—caught his eye and he paused mid-motion. Chris grabbed for it, then fished around in one of his cupboards until his hand closed around the handle of a small copper pot. Vincent had brought both with him from Istanbul—a Turkish coffee pot and a small bag of finely ground coffee from his favourite café near his apartment.

The bag was nearly empty now. He’d have to ask Vincent to send more the next time they spoke. Not that Chris drank the strong, bitter coffee often, much preferring his lighter roast from the Scandinavian cafe he frequented on days off, but he liked having it around. He tended to reach for it on cold, grey mornings when he’d pried himself off the sofa, eyes red and burning with sleeplessness, wishing maybe he’d once again turn the corner and find Vincent lounging in his living room, bathed in the early light of morning.

He fished around in his hoodie pocket for his phone and propped it up on the kitchen island, balancing it against his now empty water glass before he flicked the screen on and scrolled through his files.

When he found the video he was looking for, he clicked it open and the quiet of the house was broken by Vincent’s shy laugh, followed by his familiar Brabantian Dutch with its soft syllables.

‘ _Christiaan are you taking a video_?  _Tell me you’re not doing an Instagram live stream of me making coffee in your kitchen right now._ ’

Chris’s own voice answered in slightly louder Dutch from behind the camera. ‘ _Of course not. It’s an instructional video. Otherwise how will I use this once you’re gone_?’

Another laugh and a shake of Vincent’s head. ‘ _It’s not as though it’s difficult. Besides, I’ve already shown you twice_.’

‘ _Show me again_.’

Chris had never realised how much his tone changed when he spoke with Vincent until he’d played the video back on repeat, laying on his stomach on the sofa in the quiet dark a week after Vincent had returned home. When he spoke with Vincent, Chris tinged his words with  a soft sweetness, a bit teasing and full of warm affection and a playful lilt he knew wasn’t there in interviews or his Spurs TV slots or even as he slid in beside Mousa or Jan or Toby for one of their frequent dinner and board game nights.

‘ _Honestly, Christiaan. It’s just coffee._ ’ Vincent turned his face towards the camera, his dimples flickering at the corners of his mouth.

‘ _Show me anyway. Just to be sure._ ’

‘ _You’re so difficult_. _I don’t know how anyone can live with you_.’

‘ _Hmmm, maybe_ ,’ Chris replied. ‘ _But you’re here anyway, so_ …’

On the screen, the video swooped around the room in a rapid blur of motion that was enough to make anyone feel a bit ill, dipping down to the counter and zooming back up to the wall behind the stove before stopping to hover shakily on the tiled floor, the edge of Chris’s socked foot flickering in and out of view in one corner. The speakers emitted a faint, wet sound—the slide of mouth against mouth and tongue against tongue—and then a low moan that would have had Chris burying his face in his hands in embarrassment had anyone happened to overhear it. Here, however, alone in the privacy of his own kitchen, in the very spot where that kiss had taken place, it sent a shiver down his spine and blood rushing to his groin.

The noise ended with a muffled slapping sound—Chris’s hand swatting at Vincent’s arse—and a sharp yelp from Vincent, followed by a burst of laughter from Chris.

‘ _Enough of that. You didn’t really think you could get out of this so easily, did you_?’ He was trying to sound chastising, but even now Chris could hear the breathy edge to his own voice. Vincent could indeed get out of things that easily, and they both knew it.

The camera swooped up again to focus on Vincent’s face, his cheeks now tinged with the faintest pink flush, his brown eyes darker than they had been a few moments before. He tipped his head and gave a shrug. ‘ _It’s always worked before_.’

‘ _You’re not half as charming as you think you are. Now stop arsing about, I want coffee_.’

‘ _Fine,_ ’ Vincent said, turning back to the stove. ‘ _I know how dangerous it is to get between you and your coffee. I’d hate to put my life at risk_.’

‘ _Smart. I knew there was a reason I liked you_.’

‘ _Not my devastating good looks and captivating personality_?’

‘ _Just make coffee_.’

‘ _Hmm okay_. _But only because I fear for my safety if I don’t_.’

Vincent set about making coffee—measuring everything into the pot while narrating each action. Chris interrupted him a few times, asking clarification on amounts, to which Vincent smiled and said ‘ _Hush and let me do it_ ,’ and ‘ _I’ll write it down for you later_.’

‘ _What’s the point of the video then_?’ Chris asked

Vincent laughed. ‘ _Well_ I _certainly have no idea_.’

Chris followed along with the video, mimicking the movements and measuring the ingredients more from memory than from anything Vincent was saying. He’d watched this often enough since Vincent had left that he’d long since mastered the steps.

He’d just gotten the coffee into the pot and was waiting for it to boil—which mostly involved staring down at his phone screen to watch Vincent’s wide smile threaten to take over his face as he teased Chris about being so helpless in the kitchen that he needed a video of how to make coffee. The teasing led to another round of kissing, this one fully visible on screen as Chris dropped his phone to the counter and wrapped his arms around Vincent.

The angle was an unflattering one—the small phone camera staring up at them from below—but it was enough to make Chris’s body react in an instant, caught up in the memory of the kiss and of Vincent’s hands reaching up to tangle in his hair.

Chris turned his full attention on the small copper pot now steaming on the stove, focusing in on the puffs of white steam as the liquid neared a boil as though he could somehow pretend he wasn’t listening to the sound of his own arousal fill the air around him. _If you take your eyes off the coffee it will be ruined_ —another lie he told himself. He knew he had time. In the video, Vincent would break away at just the right moment, mumbling barely coherent words in response to Chris’s low, lust-filled groan.

At one particularly sharp intake of breath from the phone, which was still focused on he and Vincent at that strange oblique angle, Chris abandoned any pretense of focusing on the coffee and stared at the images playing out on the screen. This wasn’t the first time he’d viewed this video—it wasn’t even the tenth time—yet he was still unable to look away.

It should feel uncomfortable, like some strange bit of bizarre voyeurism—a forbidden glimpse into a private moment—except that he was watching _himself_

He’d thought about cutting out this part of the video at first, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to delete it. _Too much effort_ he’d told himself. It wasn’t worth the time to figure out how the software worked and then try to fuss around with the timeline just to cut out a few minutes of video.

On screen, Chris’s jaw worked in slow circles as he pressed against Vincent, their moans echoing harsher and louder with each obvious swipe of tongue against tongue. In the present, just as then, Chris’s body shook with a shudder of desire, his body reacting to the remembered arousal of his past, and of the obvious arousal he invoked in Vincent.

It was that thought, he’d noted one night as he dragged his hand down the length of his own body in an attempt to trigger the same breathless, gasping desire in himself that Vincent’s hands could bring, that intrigued him the most—the idea that he could make Vincent look this way, sensual and sexual and overwhelmed with lust and passion. Vincent’s cheeks were flushed pink, his eyes closed, his entire body twitching and shuddering as he ground into Chris. His hands roamed across Chris’s body, grasping and tugging at the back of Chris’s hair, the collar of his shirt, anywhere his fingers could find purchase to drag Chris closer into himself as though if he tried hard enough they might become inseparable.

Chris could do _that_. He could make Vincent nearly come undone around him with nothing more than a few kisses.

“ _Christiaan, waar zijt ge_?”

Chris snapped back to the present at the sound. That was Toby’s voice and, oh, fuck, was it that late already?

He sucked in a breath and yanked his hand free from where it had subconsciously slid under the waistband of his boxers. When had that happened? Christ, was he so bad off that he was really thinking about a casual wank in his kitchen on a Saturday afternoon?

“ _In de keuken_.” Chris tugged at the hem of his hoodie, grateful that this had been the one closest at hand when he’d rolled off the sofa that morning. It was a size too big for him and could easily pull down far enough to hide any signs of his arousal beneath his thin jogging bottoms.

Chris grabbed at his phone and jabbed at the screen, just managing to turn the video off and flip the phone back to the home screen before Toby’s head appeared around the doorway.

“I brought food,” Toby said, holding up a bulging long-life shopping bag. “I didn’t know if you were handling it or…what are you doing?”

On the stove, the coffee had boiled up to the lip of the small pot and was threatening to spill over the sides and into the heating coils.

Chris lurched forward to grab at the pot handle and raise it off the heat. The churning froth settled down immediately, and Chris set the pot back down on one of the unlit coils.

“Are you feeling alright? You look a bit flushed again.”

“Yeah I feel fine, just…making coffee.”

Toby wrinkled his nose towards the small pot on the stove. “Since when do you drink your coffee like that?”

“Since…” Chris started, but he let the rest of the words die on his tongue. Toby had made his feelings on Chris and Vincent’s relationship known and the two had come to a tacit agreement over Christmas that it would be best for their friendship if they just avoided speaking of Vincent whenever possible. “Christmas, I guess.”

Toby made a low _hmmm_ noise under his breath, but didn’t press Chris further.

Chris slid to his left to pull two small cups down from their resting place on the bottom shelf of his cupboard and filled each of them with coffee.

“Here.” He turned around and handed one of the cups to Toby, then leaned against his kitchen counter. “It’s a bit…weird at first if you haven’t had it this way before, but it grows on you, I think.”

“Sure,” Toby said, and then, “Christian what the hell are you wearing?”

Chris looked down at his hoodie, his nose crinkled up in confusion, and then laughed as his brain caught on to Toby’s surprise. “Oh. This.”

“Yes. That.”

“It’s Vincent’s.”

Toby raised both eyebrows, the lines on his forehead deepening with the movement. “I assumed as much.”

‘ _And_?’ he didn’t go on to say, although Chris could feel the word hanging between them while Toby waited for some kind of explanation.

Chris, coffee cup clasped in one hand, pushed past Toby and into the living room without a word.

“ _Christiaan_.”

At the rate he was going Toby would have his Dutch _opa_  persona mastered long before Jan and Mousa’s kids were old enough to need a good scolding. Until then, he apparently planned on taking every opportunity he could to practice his stern looks and disapproving tone of voice on Chris.

Chris stopped short of his sofa and turned to face Toby, the fingertips of his free hand running along the edge of his end table. “What, Toby? It’s a hoodie. I can’t wear a hoodie around my own house.”

“It’s a _Fenerbaçe_  hoodie,” Toby said, all emphasis on the word _Fenerbaçe_ with a tone of disgust, as though Chris had turned up for training one day kitted out in Chelsea gear.

“Yes. I told you, it’s Vincent’s. He left it here.”

“And you’re wearing it…”

“Why do you care? I found it upstairs while I was clearing out the spare room so I thought I’d wear it.”

“I don’t care. Do whatever you want, Christian. You always do.”

The two stared around the room, neither one sure how to proceed. Ordinarily they’d just change the topic to something less heated like football or some new restaurant someone had recommended or some new game Jan wanted to try out, but Chris honestly didn’t feel like it tonight. He’d spent the entire thinking about a lot of things he’d hidden away and what he needed more than anything was to speak about it with his best friend.

But that door was closed to him. Worse, Chris had been the one to close it: ‘ _Can we agree to just not speak about Vincent_?’ To his utter shock, Toby had agreed. Chris had been bracing himself for a fight, but maybe because it was Christmas or maybe because Toby respected their friendship as much as Chris did, Toby had backed down. He’d taken a moment, thought it over, nodded, and then slid right back into their friendship as though there had never been a rift between them.

“Why were you clearing out the spare room?”

“I…” Chris trailed off, so caught off guard by the question that it took him a moment to figure out how to proceed. For one thing, what was he going to tell Toby? ‘ _I told Vincent it could be his room when he comes back from his loan_?’ All that would do was earn him was yet another round of ‘ _Christiaan, all you’re doing is setting yourself up for disappointment_ ’ that he definitely wasn’t ready to play.

“I figured now was as good a time as any,” Chris said. “I’ve been meaning to do it for a while now, and…it’s not often you get an entire weekend off in the winter when the weather is so shit you’d rather just stay tucked up inside anyway. So I figured why not.”

A pause, and then, “What do you mean you’ve been meaning to do it? Since when? Most of that stuff hasn’t been touched since you moved it in. Now all of a sudden you get this urge to look through it?”

“I’m getting rid of some things,” Chris said. “Some of it I’m shipping to my parents and some I’m keeping but need to reorganise. That room is a mess and it’s too cluttered. It was time for a clear out.”

“No one even goes in that room,” Toby said. “The whole point of shoving all the things you don’t need in there is that they can just sit there not bothering anything. Just close the door and ignore it like most people do with their spare rooms.”

_Less a rift than a bottomless chasm_. They could pretend that treading lightly and trying to skirt around the subject of Vincent would help them bridge the gap, but Chris felt the ground crumble beneath his feet a bit more with every move these days.

One more step and Chris would lose his footing and topple over the edge of the cliff.

“I…look can we not talk about this. It’s a thing I’m doing. Leave it at that.”

Toby nodded, but said nothing, staring straight ahead as he sipped at his coffee.

Chris, too, took a drink of coffee and stared out at the big, open space that had once felt so vibrant and full of life and now just felt cold and barren and dull without Vincent’s bright smile and infectious presence.

After what felt like years, silence slowly filling up the space around them, Toby let out a deep sigh and sat down on the sofa. He patted the space beside him, indicating that Chris join him.

“Talk, Chris. I know what we agreed, but just...talk.”

“I don’t need another lecture, Toby. I’m good.”

“You’re clearly not. I can’t promise I won’t, but…I’ll try, okay? What’s going on?”

Chris sucked in a breath. On the one hand, the two had agreed not to speak about Vincent for good reason. Their friendship, one that Chris valued above most others, had come close to suffering irreparable damage in the past year, and Chris knew it was only a matter of time before one of them, in the heat of some argument or another, stepped too far and said something they could never come back from.

On the other hand, Toby was offering to listen for once, and Chris could use a friend right now. To be honest, Chris wasn’t even sure what the point was in clearing up a room and making space for someone who was never coming back. He was setting himself up for disappointment; losing track of reality and getting his hopes up only to have them dashed into pieces at the first opportunity. Toby would undoubtedly tell him just that. It was what Chris needed to hear, even if it wasn’t at all what he wanted.

Maybe that was reason enough to open up. If he spoke the words aloud he’d hear how reckless and stupid this whole thing sounded. Vincent was gone. It was sad and Chris didn’t have to like it, but he did have to accept it.

With a sigh, he dropped to the sofa beside Toby. He could deflect a bit, make up something about how he’d been worried about Vincent and his injury and needed something to keep himself busy. He’d do what he always did and give Toby just enough to placate his need to shake his head and lecture Chris for a while about how he had his own life to worry about and he didn’t need to take all Vincent’s problems on himself.

It would be enough. Toby would know he wasn’t getting the full story, but if Chris at least broke down and told him part of it he’d drop the whole thing.

Chris was tired of deflecting. He was tired of not talking about Vincent. Toby was one of his best friends and had been for close to a decade now, but Chris couldn’t keep pretending this thing he had with Vincent didn’t exist just for Toby’s sake. He owed Toby a lot and appreciated all the advice and guidance he’d given over the years, but Chris was nearly 26 now. Wasn’t it about time for him to start making his own decisions and rushing headlong into his own mistakes?

Sure, this thing with Vincent was making Chris stupid and reckless, but it was also making him amazingly, fantastically, blissfully happy, at least for now. And if—when—it all came crashing down around him, well, he wouldn’t be able to say he hadn’t been warned.

For once in his life, Chris let his thoughts spill out unchecked; not stopping to run them through the carefully designed filters he usually applied to keep himself from accidentally saying something he wished he could take back. He needed to talk about Vincent. He needed to make a space for Vincent in his life, and if that meant the disapproval of one of his closest friends then so be it.

“I…told Vincent I’d make a space for him here. In case he ever came back. To visit or to stay or just… I know you’re going to tell me it’s stupid, and you’re right. The odds that we’ll ever be in the same place for a few weeks at a time are practically insurmountable, but… I don’t know. I think we both just need to feel like maybe there’s still a chance.”

Chris sucked in a quick breath, but kept going. If he stopped now he may not start again, and the last thing he needed was to give his rational mind a chance to catch up with his irresponsible emotions.

“I need to feel like there’s a chance for us, Toby. I need Vincent to have a place in my life. Because I think about how things are without him and I just…I can’t. Everything feels wide open and empty. It’s stupid, I know because my life is great. Champions League, top four in the league, a World Cup to look forward to. I can’t complain about anything—we’re flying high and living our dreams every day. But I come home and it all just…stops. Like there’s a hole that I just can’t fix no matter how hard I try. And I thought…if I make a space—clear some things out and make space to put other things in order—then maybe I could properly enjoy the rest of it.”

He ground to a halt then, his brain finally catching up to everything he’d said. As he’d been speaking he’d tensed his shoulders and shrunk back into himself—backing away and bracing for the inevitable onslaught his unchecked outpouring of thoughts would bring.

Vincent had been gone for months. Chris had been given plenty of time to come to terms and get past it and accept that everything wasn’t just going to somehow work out if he just crossed his fingers and hoped.

“Oh, Christian.”

When Toby spoke, his voice carried the same gentle tones he’d used the day Chris had turned up at his house unannounced a few days after Vincent’s transfer. Chris had been bracing for impact that night, too, but Toby had ushered Chris inside, draped him in a blanket, and canceled his plans for the evening, all without a single condescending word.

This time, as then, Toby reached over and pulled Chris into a hug, pressing him in closer until Chris’s face rested against Toby’s shoulder and their thighs bumped together. The heat of Toby’s body radiated into Chris’s own, and Chris let himself relax into the solid warmth of another person beside him for a few moments.

It had been quite some time since he and Toby had shared this level of intimacy. Not that they didn’t give the odd hug here and there, but those were usually in the form of a quick sideways squeeze on the training pitch or the full on mob of teammates celebrating together after a goal. None of that was even close to this—a simple, silent embrace with Chris in desperate need of comfort and Toby ready and willing to offer it. It wasn’t much, really, but given the recent tensions between them, it was everything.

Toby released Chris’s shoulder and Chris straightened up, although he didn’t move his leg from where it rested against Toby’s. He wasn’t ready to give up all measures of comfort from his friend just yet.

“So. What are you doing with everything?”

“What?” Chris asked. “I…with what?”

“All the boxes. Are you storing them somewhere else, or…?”

“Oh. No. I was just hoping to condense things so I could fit them in the closets and such. It’s a big project, but worth it. I’ve been at it all day and all I’ve done is create more of a mess. Hopefully I can finish it up tomorrow, otherwise I really will just have to close the door and pretend the room doesn’t exist. It looks like a cyclone hit up there.”

Toby gave a breath of a laugh then pushed himself to a standing position. “Let me know if you want help. Sometimes these things go quicker with two.”

“Toby, you don’t have to—”

“We’re friends Chris. I may not always agree with your choices and I may not always understand them, but if putting a room in order is what you need to do to get past this and start living your life again, then…I’d be pretty stupid not to do my part and help out, wouldn’t I?”

He extended a hand out and Chris took it, letting Toby pull him to a standing position.

“Now enough of all this,” Toby said. “I’m starving and that food’s not going to be any better cold.”


End file.
